The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 49

Sheryl Jansen was proving herself a fountain of unexpected information. That she was a witness to a murder and the desecration of a corpse was one thing. Learning that she was a hearsay witness to the disposal of another was beyond the pale.

"How much of that conversation did you overhear?" I asked.

"I heard Doc's side of it, if that's what you mean," Sheryl said.

I suppose it would have been too much to ask that Doc would be on speakerphone, I thought. But the way this interview was going, it wouldn't have surprised me.

"So, when did that conversation happen?" I asked.

"It was maybe five or six weeks ago, I guess. About a month after Doc killed Theresa. I get messed up with time sometimes when I party, but I think that's right."

"Got it. Can you tell me how it went?" I asked.

"I was doing speed the day before, so I was crashing. I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I wasn't wearing anything so I was cold, and I went to turn off Doc's stupid fan. It was right then that Doc's cell phone rang, scared me half to death."

"Doc wouldn't answer it, so it stopped. But after a minute, it started up again.

"I'm thinking, 'Oh, come on! Just turn the stupid phone off—I want to sleep.' But finally, Doc answered it, cussing up a storm even though he was half-asleep. He goes, 'Alexa, turn on the fucking reading light...' and he was irritated she couldn't understand him. He was fumbling around trying to find the pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He didn't say anything into the phone until after he lit one."

"Him having the phone turned on pissed me off, because I figured once Theresa was out of the picture, there wouldn't be any marriage crap interfering with our romantic life. I was his only girlfriend left standing, so I thought our time together in the evenings wouldn't be uninterrupted. But I was too optimistic. Doc was doing most of his business at night once he didn't have to answer to Theresa, her kid, or her idiot dog.

"But really, there's nothing I could do about it that night; making him mad wouldn't be good for my health. I knew he wasn't paying any attention to me anyway, so I just rolled my eyes at the back of his head and started filing my nails. I stacked the pillows against the headboard so I could sit up in the bed, bouncing around on the mattress just so he'd know I was there. At least I wasn't pouting – he always says I do that when I don't get my way."

We're talking about people getting killed and this is what she thinks matters? I thought – but showing attitude about her priorities wouldn't help my interview.

"So, who was the caller?" I asked to move things along.

"The first thing I heard was 'What situation?!?' from Doc, and he sounded like he wanted to take someone's head off. Didn't help his mood any. The he said, 'Dammit, Ricky. Are you on a disposable?'"

"So, it was Ricky Mason? Or Richard Ainsworth?" I asked. I was sure I knew the answer, but I needed absolute clarity.

"Oh, he'd never call Ainsworth 'Ricky', that's a kid's name," Sheryl replied, a look of disdain crossing her face.

"So, Mason, then... What else did Doc say?" I asked.

"He snapped at Ricky, 'I'll call you back on a secure line', and then hung up. He reached into the top drawer of the nightstand and pulled out the burner TracPhone he uses for these situations. He punched some numbers into it before he started listening.

"Doc said, 'Okay, Ricky, what have you gotten yourself into that you called me at this hour?' He sounded more awake but he wasn't any happier."

"Doc didn't say anything for a little bit while he was listening. But you could tell he was frustrated – he does this thing where he rubs the top of his head, where he used to have hair, with his free hand.